Why I love what I do is because it leads me to so many truths. Before going to Azadpur Mandi to write about the onion sellers I had no idea that they get paid Rs. 2 to carry a 55 kg sack of onions. This was my moment of truth and it keeps so many of us grounded.
An edited version of this appeared in the Indian Express Real Page 3 section on January 16, 2011.
Chinki Sinha
New Delhi, January 13, 2010
Sitting among the sacks of white and red onions, Suresh, a labourer at the Azadpur Mandi, is mourning what he feels is the impending death of its smell.
It lingers on, faint and fleeting, not so strong as before for ever since the supplies were hit, fewer trucks carrying onions have started coming in from Maharashtra.
He can't deal with the betrayal of the smell. It means loss of livelihood, and empty stomach on most nights.
“Out lives have been spent smelling the onions,” he said.
Ever since the rains damaged the crop and pushed up the onion prices along with the raids the government undertook to rein in profiteering by the traders, fewer trucks have lined up outside the Mandi, and his shoulders have carried lesser number of sacks than usual.
Work is less, and so is the money. Suresh, like others, earn Rs. 2 per sack. A few weeks ago, he was able to make around Rs. 200 per day. These days, it hardly touches Rs. 100.
“We can't send money home anymore. There is hardly any work,” he said.
The air outside the tin shed stacked with sacks of onions feels lighter, strange even. Sans the pungent odour of the onions, it felt bare to Suresh who has worked at Delhi's Azadpur Mandi for almost three decades. Like others, he lives there, too. Their belongings are hung on the poles or piled up against the wall.
Long ago his eyes stopped watering when the rancid smell struck them.
The smell has become part of his being in the 30 years he has spent loading and unloading sacks of onions, sleeping on the floor strewn with onions, and getting up with the sight of trucks stacked with onions lining up outside the Azadpur Mandi every morning.
The oppressive smell engulfs the floor space, the roof, all of it, permeates their bedding and a few rags that the daily labourers who live in the shed have hung on the poles.
“It's fragrance. We don't feel it,” Raju, another labourer, said.
But these past few weeks, the air inside has started to feel different. It is losing its strength, its character.
On Thursday, only 15 trucks lined up. Chaudhury Bhullan Singh's A-311, one of the 119 onion wholesale retailers at the Mandi, where Suresh works with six others. These are lean days for the group.
Before the onion crisis hit the markets, at least 300 trucks from Maharashtra carrying onions came to the Mandi early in the morning and Suresh and his men would rush to them, grabbing the sacks and running to and fro, breaking for lunch late in the day.
These days, work is over by afternoon. At A-311, they are lucky they have work, even if it pays little. At other shops, workers are sitting around, waiting for their trucks.
“We are stuck. There is nothing else we can do,” Raju, who hails from a village in Mau district in UP.
He came to the Mandi 12 years ago after he realized migration was a human reality for his lot. With shrinking farmland and droughts and increasing family size, he couldn't rely on the tiny piece of land he owned.
So, he got on to the Satyagrah Express and landed in the capital with a man from his village who said working at the Mandi would help his family get by.
Each morning, the seven of them get up, go to the nearby Raj Hotel for tea and snacks and start work.
The skin on Raju's left shoulder has hardened with years of carrying sacks weighing at least 55 kgs each.
It hurt once upon a time when he was new in the trade. Now, he feels no sensation.
“They have become like the skin of my heels,” he said. “Hard, and weathered. We are like mules but have no other chance in life.”
Their clothes have been rendered threadbare because of the coarse jute of the sacks that rubs with it for hours. The left shoulder looks a little tilted, a bit worn. But they have accepted their lot, and the potential damage to their limbs, as part of their daily drudgery.
Suresh studied until Class 10 in his village school but dropped out when he had to help the family.
When he came, he used to earn 35 paise per sack. In the last three decades, not much has changed in his life. The smell is the constant, and so is the numbness in his left shoulder.
“I don't know if I could do anything else. This is the only work I know,” he said.
There is a strange camaraderie among the men, who identify with their fellow's situation. Suresh divides the earnings of the day based on the numbers of sacks that have unloaded or loaded during the day among the seven.
For five weeks, ever since the onion supplies have taken the hit, they have been taking turns in sending money home, pooling in their savings to help a family that might need the money more than the others.
Suresh is the eldest. At 54, he is like the patriarch, the man who has kept them all together.
“This mandi is now home,” he said.
He has tried bargaining with the traders. But sans any unions, he hasn't been able to deliver on his promises. The increase per year is a paltry sum of 20 paise per sack that doesn't match the spiraling prices of basic commodities.
On most days, they debate if they should skip a meal and send money home instead. The dilemma is what is causing pain, and a few of them go hungry at times so their families don't suffer.
At less than Rs. 100 per day, it is pretty tight and they are hoping the crisis gets over so they can return to their usual lives even if means shooting pains in the shoulder and the back.
At his age, Suresh knows his shoulders won't last too long.
“We sell the strength of our limbs. There's no savings in this work,” he said. “But what's the alternative?”
Their work promises no social security, no perks, no bonuses. But there are onions they can pick up, the ones that have fallen on the floor in the chaos of the brisk buying and selling.
“That's the privilege,” Raju said. “But you still have to buy rice and vegetables and other things.”
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